


Sticky Situations

by tollofthebells



Series: Art Trade and Gift Fics [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Almost Confessions, Awkward Cullen, Dessert & Sweets, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, Sassy Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-20 07:59:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16552013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tollofthebells/pseuds/tollofthebells
Summary: "Catching feelings? In MY Skyhold? It's more likely than you think." --Velthei Lavellan, probably





	Sticky Situations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fourletterepithet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourletterepithet/gifts).



Crashes of steel on steel, dull thunks of swords on wooden shields greet Velthei and her companions upon their arrival back at Skyhold. Only the occasional and unintelligible shout from Cullen, no doubt giving direction to his ever-increasing— _Creators willin_ g—squadrons of troops, cuts through the music of their training.

“Place looks about as good as it did when we left,” mutters Varric. He’s right. The grounds around the great keep seem to be in a perpetual state of early spring, the runoff from the surrounding mountains creating rivers of mud around every turn, and even the almighty Inquisitor and her closest friends aren’t spared from the wrath of the thick and sludgy mess.

By the time they’d reached the great bridge, Velthei and her crew were covered nearly to their waists in splatters of dirt and mud—in Varric’s case, the stains of the spring thaw reach well past his hips. The stone walkways across the chasm fall victim to their filthy boots as they cross, and when at last they reach the main gate, all four are worn out and soaked to the bone.

“All right kid,” Varric sighs, nearly as soon as they’re over the threshold, practically wringing out mud from his leather gloves, “I’m off. I need a bath. With any luck, I’ll be thawed out by breakfast.”

“You’d better be,” she shoots back, “it’s straight back to the Hinterlands at dawn and I’ll need you all ready.”

Varric and Blackwall gape at her; only Dorian smirks back.

“I’m joking,” she snorts, eyebrows raised, _really?_

After an uncomfortably long silence, Varric offers little more than a low, humorless laugh before parting ways; Blackwall doesn’t even stay long enough to respond—he’s already headed toward the stables and grumbling something about running on too little sleep to take a joke like that.

“I’m not quite sure either of them were in the mood for jesting in such wonderful conditions as we have here this afternoon,” Dorian chuckles. He gives his staff a good kick, knocking off some of the caked-on dirt it’s accumulated. “How _dare_ they, truly?”

“This?” she asks, gesturing at her pants—once green, now thick with clay and earth. They both look like they’ve just returned from a leisurely dip in the Fallow Mire. “This is nothing. Cowards, both of them.”

“Can’t handle the heat,” he mutters, giving his staff a little twirl, sparking the smallest of flames from the top. “Still, I’m afraid I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t fully intend on sinking into a good, hot bath for the next...oh, couple of weeks, at least.” She grins, she can’t blame him, really. “Shall we?” Dorian asks, starting for the keep, but Velthei hangs back, shifting from foot to foot. “ _Oh_ ,” he says, a knowing smile curling the ends of his moustache. “Well. Don’t let me get in your way.”

She wrinkles her nose, sticks her tongue out at him once his back is turned, but it’s no use; Dorian knows too much for his own good. As always.

Once he’s disappeared around the corner, she takes a quick look over both shoulders—not that there’s anything to be _afraid_ of; she’s not doing anything _wrong_ —deems the coast clear, and makes her way to the training yard. The grounds _within_ Skyhold hardly fare better than the slopes surrounding it; when she reaches the yard, she finds it more akin to a mudslide than a proper training ground, but Cullen is nothing if not persistent, and so his recruits train away.

They’re running blocking drills when she finally finds a seat—two crates of equipment stacked on top of each other, as good a chair as any she might find in mud like this—and hoists herself on top with the help of her staff. _Carry on,_ she mouths at the few recruits who take note of her arrival, motioning for them to pay her no mind. In spite of the state of her clothes, the damp chill running over nearly every thread on her, she’s in no rush. _You’re home,_ she thinks, _you’re safe, and there’s a dumb blond commander making a mess of his own armor in the mud to entertain you._

“ _Damn it_ , Alice,” Cullen groans, raising his arm to stop the drill, sheathing his sword. Velthei has to press her hand to her mouth to hide her grin; the only thing funnier than Cullen being himself is Cullen being frustrated—she’s missed this while she was gone but _Creators, patience really is a virtue._

“If you hold your shield like this,”—he lets his own shield flop loosely around in his hand, shaking it about like a dead fish out of water, and Velthei can’t contain her laughter any longer—“how will you be able to block anything? Look here, they call this a ‘grip’ for a reason, you need to _grip_ it!” He frowns, eyeing the soldiers around him that are slowly losing interest in the lesson before them in favor of their revered Inquisitor, Andraste's chosen herself, perched upon a stack of boxes and reduced to a fit of giggles in their very own training yard. “Are you even listening to me?” he demands, throwing his hands in the air in defeat. “Honestly, I—”

“Ser,” one of the recruits, Alice, says politely, pointing out to where Velthei sits, still grinning, _fun over,_ she thinks, _or so he hopes._ She hops down from her throne of boxes lithely, the look on his face worth every chilly and dirt-covered part of her as she half walks, half slides through the sodden grasses to meet him.

“Oh,” he says when she does, reddening and reaching behind his neck, scratching at the ever-persisting and likely entirely imagined itch he always seemed to remember when he found himself in her presence.

 _“Oh,”_ she thinks, mentally mocking his tone, _is that the only letter in the alphabet he’s ever learned?_

“You’re back,” he observes. When he brings his hand back around, his glove brushes past his cheek, streaking a bit of mud along his jaw. Velthei snorts. “What?” he asks her, and _how can he manage to blush more than he already is?_

“Nothing,” she giggles. “It’s just, you’ve got a bit of…” She gestures at her own cheek, hoping he’ll take her hint, and when he does, the flush in his face reaches his ears.

“Oh.” _There it is again_. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Well, don’t apologize!” she laughs; she knows she’s embarrassed him but she just can’t _help_ it. “I mean, it makes you look rather…” Her voice trails off, and any laughter still dancing along her lips vanishes.

“Rather _what_?”

Rather silly. Rather caught off-guard. Rather in need of a bath. Rather handsome.

_Rather handsome?_

“Nothing,” she rushes, her mind backpedaling, _oh no, no no no, Cullen Rutherford is_ not _handsome_. She swallows down the traitorous flutter of her heart and turns back toward the keep. “In fact, I have to—”

“Rather what?” he repeats, but _oh_ the harder he grasps the more she slips away and she’s strides away from the yard now.

“Nothing!” she calls over her shoulder, _“rather handsome” my ass_.

“But—I—wait!” he pleads, catching up to her, lowering his voice, _Creators forbid his recruits catch him with any part of his life out of his control._ “Could you…maybe would you want to stay for a bit? I can…we’re almost done here, maybe we could...go for a stroll or something. I don’t know. Get some fresh air.”

She could laugh in his face just now. Fresh air. _We’re already outside, Cullen_ , she might snark at him on any other day, _I’ve been in the ‘fresh air’ for the past week_ , or maybe _why don’t you “stroll’ back on into your shield-waving and your sword-heaving and let me watch?_ but she’s flustered, she’s brought this upon herself, and her usual snappy remarks slip from her fingers as she stares back at him.

“Vel—Inquisitor?” he prompts her softly, and she swallows, _oh Creators, he’s not the only one who can turn red as a tomato when it’s least convenient_.

“I hate fresh air,” she squeaks, and with a final turn in the sticky mud, she makes her way back to Skyhold, leaving him behind in her wake.

* * *

When dusk falls and the buzzing and conversations around Skyhold have finally either faded out or trickled over into the Herald’s Rest and the only wanderers about the stone hallways and wind-chilled battlements are the guards about their nightly watches, Velthei at last slips from her quarters, freshly bathed—though it seemed to take hours to get the feeling back into her toes—and clothed in a clean tunic and pants. She’s grateful for the knit scarf she’d grabbed on her way out; the ramparts are cold this time of night, and the warmth from the early spring sun had long since blown away with the wind.

She’s beginning to question the whether her trip will be worthwhile by the time she finally reaches the kitchens—after all, there’s nothing like the chill of the Frostbacks to make her doubt how hungry she _really_ is. Any uncertainties she’d had are instantly quieted, however, when the warmth of the ovens, the soft glow of a roaring fire welcome her in from the cold. The smell is heavenly— _berry pie_ , she knows instantly at the first breath she takes—and the growling in her stomach tells her she’s made the right choice in braving the winds. A quick peek around the kitchens and the larder confirm the cooking staff are nowhere to be found, so she props her staff up against the counter and rolls the sleeves of her tunic back. _It’s well past dinner time anyway_ , she thinks, _they’re probably all at the tavern_.

“All right,” she says aloud to herself, eyeing the pastry shelves stacked neatly with fresh-baked desserts. _Of course the pies are nearly at the top_. “Time to get from down here...to up there.”

“Could you use a hand, maybe?”

She nearly jumps out of her own skin at the sound of Cullen’s voice. “What are you—how did you— _Creators_ , Cullen you _scared_ me!”

“Sorry.” He gives her a small smile, a _shy_ smile and her heart flips, _stop it_ , she thinks, not to him but to herself and it’s all she can do to not to turn right out of the room and pull her hair out.

She ignores his offer, answers his question with one of her own instead. “What are you doing out here, anyway?” she asks. “It’s getting late. Don’t you have...reports to read? Or write? Or something?”

Another smile, _stop that_ , and he rubs his neck bashfully. “Well, actually, I was out for a stroll—” _a stroll_ , “—and I saw you heading this way, so I thought…”

She looks at him expectantly. “You thought…?” she prompts. Her stomach growls again; as much as she enjoys his company—and the way he makes a complete dork of himself sometimes—she doesn’t quite have the luxury of waiting around when there was _pie_ just feet away from her, ready to be eaten.

“I thought I would…” He clears his throat, shakes his head. “Can you remind me what it is _you_ came here for?” Cullen asks, gesturing at the kitchen shelves around them.

Her stomach wins in the end. “Well,” she replies, slowly so as not to confuse him, dragging a stool over to the pastry shelf and climbing on top, “sometimes, when people are hungry, they seek out food.”

She doesn’t have to turn around to know he’s rolling his eyes, and it brings a wicked grin to her face. But when she climbs back down, pie of choice in hand, she turns around to find him standing just inches from her and far less amused than she is.

“Inquisitor,” he starts, chewing his lip, and she raises an eyebrow at him. “What were you going to say to me, earlier today? In the training yard?”

 _Oh no_. It’s not hard for her to duck around him; he’s tall and bulky and in armor as thick as his, he just can’t match her speed, her lithe feet. “I’m hungry,” she says, dodging his question a _second_ time and making for the table. “Are you? I don’t mind shar—”

He snatches the pie from her hand midsentence.

_Creators, I’ve given him too little credit._

“Cullen,” she says, pursing her lips. “Give it back. I’m _hungry_.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” he replies simply, holding the pie far above her. It’s pointless to try and reach; he’s nearly a foot taller than her as it is but it doesn’t stop her from trying, from leaping once, twice, enough to bring a glimmer of laughter in his amber eyes and the hint of a smile to the corners of his mouth.

“And I’m not _going_ to if you don’t give me my pie.”

“Just tell me,” he laughs.

 _It’s a game to him,_ she realizes. _Well, I can play, too._

She snatches her staff from up against the table, blue eyes sparkling like the crackling fire beside them as she matches Cullen’s sudden frown with a grin of her own. “Give it back,” she says again, spirited, alight, _and I’ll play to win_.

His eyes dart from hers to her staff and back again. “Inquisitor,” he warns, and she’s blind to the absence of humor from his voice.

“Cullen,” she replies, tone for tone, gripping the handle of her staff in her fingers. He bites his lip, eyeing her staff a second time.

“Don’t,” he says slowly, but she’s made up her mind. It takes only a quick twist of the staff in her hands to pull the pie from Cullen’s grasp; _good_ , she thinks, _mine now_ , and it hovers over the two of them as though in slow motion, she’s the victor after all, and to the victor goes the spoils, but _oh_ , her heart nearly skips a beat when she looks back at him. _Magic_ , she thinks, he’s _afraid_ of it; she so rarely resorts to her staff in his presence as it is but she’s been too caught up, the growling in her stomach taking precedence over the cautiousness of her mind and _that was a mistake_ , she ends the spell nearly as soon as it’s begun but for the second time in mere seconds, she doesn’t think before she acts. The pie falls to Cullen’s head with a _splat_.

She claps her hand over her mouth, _Creators, what have I done?_ she thinks, but she can only stand speechless in shock; they both do for seconds, for _minutes_ , maybe, as the flaky crusts fall to floor beside him, the berry filling—still warm from the oven—spreading over his head like thick honey poured over a cake.

Cullen, _bless him_ , is the first to find his voice again. “This is...embarrassing, for lack of a better word,” he mutters, blushing a shade of red that rivals the syrupy fruit trickling its way through his curly hair.

He looks utterly _ridiculous_. The streak of mud upon his cheek earlier in the day is _nothing_ against this, _nothing_ , and when the initial shock wears away, she can’t help the sheer amusement that soars through her when she looks at him.

“Oh, Cullen, I’m so sorry!” she whispers earnestly; she’s still yet to remove her hand from over her mouth, now out of fear of laughing too hard more than out of surprise. “It’s not...it’s not...well...” She can't help the giggle that sneaks out from behind her fingers. “It is pretty embarrassing.” Her heart swirls with a mix of pity and humor as they stare back at one another. “At least...” she offers, reaching out to him, “at least let me help you clean—”

“No, thank you, Inquisitor,” he sighs, closing his eyes as though to will himself invisible. When he does, a bit of whipped cream falls from his frontmost curls to the tip of his nose, and Velthei can’t hide her snicker.

“ _Cullen_ ,” she presses, “it’s _okay_ , you know, I mean it _is_ embarrassing, but it does make you look rather…” She stops herself, but it’s too late. They’re in the same place for the second time in one day, Cullen a blushing wreck before her and her eating her own words in return.

“Rather what?” Cullen asks dully, _resigned_ , as though he’s long since given up on looking for a response from her, as though he already knows he’s lost this one and he’s only asking so she knows he’s heard her in the first place.

She stands on her tiptoes before him wordlessly; at the sound of her movements he finally cracks open one eye, then the second, to look back at her through berry-stained lashes. “Cullen,” she says in earnest, a grin spreading over her face as she scoops a dollop of cream off the tip of his nose with her finger. “It makes you look rather cute.” She pops her finger in her mouth and turns away before she can regret her own words, _sincere as they are_ , and she’s quick to summon a second pie from the shelf on her way out.

She doesn’t stay long enough to see how red he turns.

**Author's Note:**

> What a pleasure to write for [fourletterepithet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourletterepithet/pseuds/fourletterepithet)'s Velthei Lavellan! She's such a spirited and fun Inquisitor. If you like what you've read of her, you should absolutely go check out her main fics!


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